


You Might Want to Take Notes

by herbailiwick



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Music, Piano, Violins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-22
Updated: 2012-06-22
Packaged: 2017-11-08 08:26:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/441184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herbailiwick/pseuds/herbailiwick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>General_Button prompted Anderson trying to impress Sherlock, Sherlock finally confronting him about his "obvious" crush and then doing something mean, sweet, or sexy.</p><p>cmcross prompted: "Anderson admires Sherlock's fingers when he plays the violin."</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Might Want to Take Notes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [General_Button](https://archiveofourown.org/users/General_Button/gifts), [cmcross](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cmcross/gifts).



It's only because it's Lestrade's niece that Sherlock even bothers to help comfort her. She has large (almost too large for her face, he thinks) brown eyes, and she has plaits and a worried expression. Her mother, Lestrade's sister, has just been rushed to the A & E with severe food poisoning. 

Sally smiles kindly, taking a seat. She cares a great deal for children, and she'll likely make a good if colorful mother. For all her bluntness, Sherlock doesn't find her to be rash or unreliable. He even thinks her kind. "Hi, my name's Sally. And you're Sandra, right?"

Sandra swallows with nervousness at being sat in her uncle's strange office with people she doesn't know when all the while her mum's life is in danger. She tugs at one of her plaits and says, "Yes, that's right." 

"Well, we're gonna take care of you. Don't worry," Sally says, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. "We work with your Uncle Greg. I've heard all about you, actually. He's very proud of you."

Sandra smiles a wavery smile, twisting her small hands together in her lap.

"Sandra, it's highly unlikely that your mum will die," Sherlock says carefully. Sally gives him a warning look. He swallows, and doesn't elaborate.

"Er...thanks?" Sandra says, looking more frightened.

"Well, hey," says Sally, searching for a distraction. "I think we might have a donut for you. Should I check?"

Sandra nods carefully. "Okay."

Before Sally leaves, she catches Sherlock's gaze. She has a warning expression, probably meaning for him not to say anything stupid. Like a gaze could stop him! He'll try to be good, though there's no guarantee he'll manage it.

"So," Sherlock says, eyeing Sandra's violin case. "You play the violin."

"Yes, I do," Sandra says, toying with the end of her plait. She seems a bit more at ease with the change of subject. To be honest, so is Sherlock. "I'm not any good," she adds solemnly.

"A beginner, clearly," Sherlock says in turn. "Why would you expect to be any good yet?"

"I...I don't know."

"Let's fix your feelings of inadequacy," Sherlock says, gesturing to the case. "I play the violin too. Get it out."

She looks nervous but also determined as she kneels on the floor and opens the case. 

Sally steps back into the office with a donut on a paper plate, leaning against the door frame for a moment. "Sandra's going to play," Sherlock explains.

Sally sits the plate on Lestrade's desk, taking a seat near Sandra again, watching. She doesn't say anything in protest, which Sherlock is glad of.

Sandra glances at Sherlock for reassurance. He smiles a false smile at her, and she returns to getting ready. Then, she stands, positioning the instrument. She swallows. 

"What are you going to play?" Sherlock asks.

"'Ode to Joy'." She pushes her plait behind her shoulder and takes in a deep breath. She starts to play. She doesn't have it all down, and her timing is a bit off. Mainly, she's kind of shaky, physically shaky.

"It's alright," Sherlock says. "Don't worry so much about your audience." Sandra looks up at him, and Sally looks at him too, frowning slightly, interested but suspicious. "The main thing you need, Sandra, is confidence," Sherlock says. "Don't forget that. The rest comes in time. Confidence is key for you."

Sandra smiles shyly. 

"Also, you're a bit out of tune. If you wouldn't mind?" He holds out his hands for the instrument. She hands it over, sitting down heavily next to Sally. It had been nerve-wracking to play, but she's glad she's done it. The man, Sherlock, is nice.

Sherlock gets the instrument tuned quickly, and starts to hand it back when Sandra says, "You play now."

Sherlock glances at Sally to see if she thinks that's okay. 

Sally smirks. "I must admit, I'd pay to see that," she grins. "Go on."

"You have to," Sandra insists.

Sherlock nods. Alright, no use refusing at this point. He stands, closing his eyes.

"What are you going to play?" Sandra asks. He opens his eyes again.

"I thought I'd improvise," he says. "Is that alright?" He looks at Sally and Sandra.

"You mean make it up?" Sandra asks, eyes wide. "Yes, do it."

Sherlock smiles slightly at that, closing his eyes again. He starts, beginning with a soulful set of notes he repeats a few times until he discovers what the next bit should be, and he plays it out, the notes short and the tune a little haunting. There's hope there too, though, a sort of far away hope, a rise here and there that breaks the coolness. 

He opens his eyes when he feels he's gone on long enough. Sandra and Sally are both staring at him, rapt. 

"Wow," Sally says. 

Sherlock clears his throat. "What did you think?" he asks Sandra, offering her the instrument.

"Do some more," Sandra says. "Please," she adds.

"Hm. Perhaps. But we should close the door," Sherlock says, turning, but he stops short when he sees Anderson is standing in the doorway, grinning. "Anderson," he growls lowly.

"Don't mind me. Do some more!" Anderson says. "Come on, Sherlock." He pushes inside the office, crossing his arms as he leans against the door he's just shut. 

"He's not making fun of you," Sally says to Sherlock. "Play some more."

Sherlock glances at her, seems to relax a little, then gets the violin in position again. "Requests?" he asks, looking at Anderson in particular.

"No. Go on and make it up again," Anderson says, and Sherlock starts to play, but he keeps his eyes open this time, not quite trusting Anderson not to be making fun, and not quite trusting him to appreciate the brilliance of his improvisation. He shows off a bit more, adding more runs and wide leaps and key changes.

Sherlock notes that Anderson's eyes follow the movement of his fingers with exactness. He suddenly feels too close to Anderson, taking half a step back as he continues. Those damn puppydog eyes are still transfixed by the movement of his fingers as he plays, and Sherlock feels his face starting to heat because of it. He can't recall his hands, a part of him he's rather proud of, ever being watched so intently before. It's the music; it's got to be the music and the music alone. Let it be the music!

He hits a wrong note and stops in embarrassment. Coughing politely, he says, "Well, you get the idea." He stares at Anderson for another long moment, and Anderson stares right back.

Sandra starts to clap, and so does Sally, and, finally, Anderson smiles a genuine smile at Sherlock, biting his lip. "Well played," he says with a bit of a bow to Sherlock.

Sherlock busies himself with checking the tuning one more time before handing the bow and instrument back to the dear little girl with haste. "This is a very important tool, Sandra," he says, leaning in toward her. "I find music to be a better distraction than nearly anything else. If I'm worried, I play. Remember that about music."

Sandra looks up at him with awe. "I will," she promises.

Sherlock crosses his arms. "Excuse me, Anderson," he says stiffly, and he waits for Anderson to move before exiting the office.

He wants to go home and find some way to get Anderson's strange reaction out of his head, but he knows he can't play. That'll only make it worse.

***

"Sandra tells me you went a long way in helping her feel better. Thank you, Sherlock," Lestrade says, looking a bit tired.

"It was nothing," Sherlock says quickly, trying to brush it off. He takes a sip of his coffee.

"It wasn't nothing," Anderson says, looking at Sherlock with an oddly intense expression. "I think he'll actually make an alright uncle or, God forbid, father, someday. I was impressed." His phone rings. "Oh, hang on," he says with a hint of annoyance, heading out to the hall.

"I was impressed too," Sally says. "I have to ask: Do you ever think about having kids?"

"I suppose I haven't given it much thought," Sherlock says, fingers twitching slightly around the mug. Actually, he has, usually to consider himself completely unfit. But perhaps...perhaps he wouldn't create the next serial killer after all. Honestly, he'd found talking to Lestrade's niece to be more comfortable than trying to keep up with the conversational standards of adults. 

"I want kids," Sally says with a bit of a sigh. "Not quite yet, though."

"How's Anderson feel about that?" Sherlock quips, nodding toward the hall.

"We're not together, you know, deductions or no deductions," Sally says firmly, keeping her voice down. She checks the doorway to make sure Anderson's not coming back. "He wants children even more than I do. The wife doesn't want any, and it makes him sad. It's not their only problem, of course, but it's a big one. Shh," she says, ducking into her own mug as Anderson heads back in. 

"What?" asks Anderson, noticing Sherlock and Lestrade's eyes on him. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Sally says, smirking. "Don't worry about it. Who was that?"

Anderson rolls his eyes. "You know who it was."

Sally sighs.

"So you're going to get a divorce soon," Sherlock says.

Anderson blinks. "And you've just worked that out?"

Sherlock nods, cautiously staring into his coffee.

***

Lestrade tries to convince Sherlock to play a little something at the Yard Christmas party, and he finally gives in on the condition he won't be the only one playing "like a monkey for the amusement of the less-talented". John thinks it's a good idea for him to go, and also to not use phrases that imply that everyone else is an idiot, even if Sherlock thinks they are.

Sherlock plants the violin on John while he goes about avoiding people, until Lestrade finally catches up to him and asks if he'll play a few Christmas tunes.

"You know I hate this season," Sherlock says with distaste. "But if you've convinced other people to play as well," he says, gesturing toward the side of the room with the piano and the music stand, "I'll hold up my end of the bargain."

"We have," Lestrade promises. "At the very least, we'll have Anderson on the piano."

"Anderson?!" Sherlock turns around to find John, who hasn't moved very far, still clutching the violin's case. Maybe it won't be worth even getting his violin out. Anderson is, after all, the biggest idiot of all. 

"I know what you're thinking," Lestrade says, finding where Sherlock's gazing. "But it's worth it. He's good. And that's not just my untrained ear saying that. Your brother thought he was good too."

Sherlock whips around to stare at Lestrade. "He didn't."

"Did. Call him and ask, if you'd like. Long story short, Anderson played for a wedding we both attended."

"Anderson plays weddings?!" Sherlock isn't sure whether he's more disgusted with the idea of Anderson playing such a nice classical instrument, with the idea of his brother listening to Anderson play, with the idea of his brother _approving_ of the playing, with the idea of Anderson playing a wedding of all things, or with the idea of Mycroft and Lestrade both attending a wedding at which Anderson played the piano. Possibly the latter is the worst, but all are big contenders.

He'll need to play the violin. Even if he has to put up with an encore, even if there's a _standing ovation_ , he needs to hear Anderson play and he needs to pay the price for his curiosity because a deal is a deal.

"Let me just go see John," Sherlock mutters, making his pointed way across the floor.

***

Sherlock notices while he plays that Anderson stops talking as much and stops gesturing as he talks, at first taking pauses to stare at Sherlock and then watching him in earnest. He moves closer, staring at Sherlock's hands now and then. Obvious.

Sherlock isn't quite prepared for the idea that Anderson might find him physically appealing. Alright, he knows there's been a bit of a crush, but it's been harmless until now. Sherlock had assumed part of the staring at his hands last time had been simple envy of his musical talent. But if Anderson is musically impressive in his own right, then why is he staring at Sherlock's hands? Granted, the violin is not the piano, but both require a grace of the hands that Anderson apparently also possesses.

Sherlock does have to suffer through an encore. He still feels rather confused when the time comes to bow and start to walk away. Anderson stops him before he can hide in the crowd and search for John in stealth. 

"What is it, Anderson?" he barks.

"We could play something together," Anderson offers. "I mean, if it's not _beneath_ you."

"It isn't," Sherlock says defiantly, standing tall, raising his chin. How dare Anderson try to predict his actions.

Sherlock watches Anderson adjust the bench and take his seat, stepping closer. He can see Anderson's hands for the first time in a very long time. Anderson is usually wearing gloves. 

Anderson's wedding ring is gone. Separation or divorce. Probably the latter. Anderson and his wife have been more or less separated for a year, according to Sally.

Anderson's hands are gorgeous. He stretches them out, and Sherlock is impressed with their strength and dexterity. Sherlock swallows and says, "What shall we play?"

"You take the lead," Anderson says. "I'm accompanying, remember?"

"Right," Sherlock says, running a finger over his bottom lip. "Point."

And then, Sherlock takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, positioning his fingers and his bow. He starts with "The Holly and the Ivy". For a moment, it's just him, just his violin and the quiet murmur of happy voices. But his playing has commanded enough attention that most partygoers are just listening. He opens his eyes when Anderson quietly joins in, then builds. He feels supported, he feels...oddly understood, as Anderson follows his lead. 

Who knew Anderson was so good at taking direction? Maybe that was what Sally had liked about him. Sherlock opens his eyes and continues, his excitement building with each measure played. He and Anderson are synchronized. He has so much freedom, he has so much control. He could change the timing if he wanted. He could even change the key, probably, and Anderson would just follow.

Sherlock swallows.

When he holds out his last, long note, he finds he feels a bit light-headed. Honestly, who knew working with Anderson on something could actually be a pleasant experience?

The Yarders clap, and Anderson turns to look at Sherlock. "That was great," he says. "Thanks for that, Sherlock."

And Sherlock says quickly, "One more."

Anderson raises a brow, running a hand through his hair. He gives a shrug. "Okay."

"You pick this time," Sherlock says hurriedly. What would Anderson pick?

Anderson picks "Carol of the Bells", a choice which thrills Sherlock despite his lack of interest in Christmas. During their first song, Sherlock had been rather the star of the show, and Anderson had been quite content with that. This time, however, they start out at a reasonable pace and Anderson pushes it faster. 

Anderson's showing off a bit, caught up, but Sherlock turns to watch those hands work the piano and he plays, he keeps up, he follows because it's interesting and because he's capable. Anderson's hands fly, and Sherlock wants them to keep at it. He thinks he understands Anderson's attraction to his fingers now. 

Anderson slows, and Sherlock follows, and finally the piece ends. They both take deep breaths, and Anderson turns to look at him again, and he smiles openly at Sherlock, biting his lip. He's sweating slightly at the temples. Sherlock glances at his hands, then lets his eye train over the rest of Anderson as well.

"I think I got carried away," Anderson says. 

Sherlock smirks heavily. "You rather did, didn't you? That's alright; I never see you get carried away."

Suddenly, Sherlock realizes he's flirting. No, he can't be. He can't be flirting with Anderson, of all people, not even with the fact Anderson has turned out to be some amazingly adapatable pianist. Oh, playing with him had been so _fun_.

Unsure of what to do, Sherlock settles for holding out his hand. They shake, and he says, "I think I'll go sit down now. You...stay. Play." Then he rushes into the crowd, ignoring applause as he locates John and sits heavily in a chair. He listens to Anderson play and imagines those un-gloved hands and the way it had felt to connect to someone through music. He hadn't felt lonely at all.

"That was great!" John praises. "Maybe he's not so bad, eh? Not such an idiot when it comes to music, at least."

"No, he's not," Sherlock says with a bit of surprise, putting his violin away with a certain reluctance. 

***

After the Christmas party, Anderson pokes around a lot more, even when he's not strictly needed. Sherlock would like to be able to say that the watching annoys him, but it doesn't. He comes to feel as comfortable around Anderson as he does around Lestrade and, secretly, Sally. He starts to trust him, which is dangerous. 

Anderson tries to show off sometimes, though, and that annoys Sherlock.

"Anderson, stop trying so hard," Sherlock says when Anderson translates a bit of German that Sherlock had already picked apart and filed away in his mind.

"You should know this sort of thing," Sherlock says when Anderson underestimates the rate of decomposition of a rat by a day. The indignant expression on Anderson's face causes Sherlock to order him to turn around for a minute so he can think.

Anderson doesn't stay away, though. He keeps showing up and being distracting.

"Anderson, will you just go away?" Sherlock finally demands. And hurt flashes in those large eyes he's come to appreciate, just a bit. He regrets it after he says it. He lowers his voice, motioning Anderson over to the corner before John or Lestrade can step in and muddy things up further. He stands in front of him, more or less trapping him there.

"Anderson, it's clear you've got a crush on me. Understandable. But you're distracting me from my work, and my work means everything."

"Married to your work, yes, we all know," Anderson says, scowling. 

"So you don't deny it then?" Sherlock says.

"What would be the point? You'd just call me an idiot."

Sherlock sighs. "What do you want, Anderson?"

Anderson peeks around Sherlock and glances at Lestrade, who looks concerned. He looks back at Sherlock. "I want to impress you. As always. And don't say you don't want to impress me too."

Sherlock tilts his head in acknowledgement. 

"So, what now?" Anderson asks.

"Well, we know I can't help it, but you can," Sherlock says. "What will make you stop trying to show off? We know you don't take bribes." Here he rolls his eyes.

Anderson considers the question, really considers it. Then, he smirks. "I know you were attracted to my playing the piano. I saw you watching me."

Sherlock narrows his eyes. "Deduction isn't really your area."

"You call me an idiot more than anyone else," Anderson says with a hint of annoyance. "There's a reason for that, isn't there?"

"Yes. It's because you're the biggest idiot I work with. But," Sherlock tilts his head curiously, "perhaps we could play together again sometime. I assume you have a piano."

"I do."

"Your place then. Tomorrow night. Text me the address."

"But I don't have your number!" Anderson says as Sherlock starts to walk away.

John and Lestrade are staring at them with raised eyebrows. Hurriedly, Sherlock reaches into Anderson's pocket and takes out his phone, adding his number to Anderson's contacts. He puts it back in his pocket and hisses, "In the future, keep your voice down, Anderson."

Anderson leans back against the wall for a moment, watching as Sherlock walks away.

***

Sherlock doesn't last long, captivated by the sweet sound of Anderson at his cleverest. Sherlock stops him, resting a hand on his shoulder. Anderson turns to look up at Sherlock. 

"I think I've been a wonderful audience," Sherlock says breathlessly, with just a hint of nerves. "I've earned a reward for my trouble, haven't I?" He leans in and closes his eyes, Anderson's hand coming up to curl in his hair, and they kiss. The slight scratch of stubble increases Sherlock's sensory awareness and he groans, wrapping an arm around Anderson's back.

They pull apart. "Who'd have known it would be that easy?" Anderson marvels, smirking at his fortune. 

"Shut up, Anderson," Sherlock mutters, tugging him a bit closer. 

A quirked brow. "You do realize that's not my first name?"

"Of course it isn't. You'll have to earn that familiarity."

"And how do you propose I do that?" He reaches up to play with Sherlock's collar.

Sherlock leans in close and whispers, "Play with me."

Anderson shivers pleasantly. "Get out your violin, you sociopath."

"Aren't you going to add 'handsome'? 'Dashing'?"

Anderson bites his lip. "No. Not when you can already deduce how I feel. Or can't you?"

"I can!" Sherlock protests, pulling away to get out his violin. "It's written all over you. But, then again, it always was. I'd just refused to acknowledge it, until you had to go and complicate things with music."

"Music has a mind of its own. There's no stopping it."

"Mm. Indeed," Sherlock says, smiling with his back turned so Anderson can't see. Anderson pokes him in the back to distract him. Finally, he takes up his instrument and draws in a deep breath. "What shall we play?" Sherlock asks.

"Anything," Anderson says. "We'll figure it out."

Sherlock feels the full weight of the statement and its implications. Whatever they came across, they'll figure it out. They're going to be okay. Music has led Sherlock right once again. The truest language, reaching even sociopaths and idiots.


End file.
